


Foresight & Preparation

by Cordelia_Sun



Category: Farscape
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, Other, Season/Series 04, Starburst Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 05:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8275184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cordelia_Sun/pseuds/Cordelia_Sun
Summary: Scorpius agrees to help John get Aeryn back, but not without a little insurance.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for www.terrafirmascapers.com Starburst Challenge #94: Write an S4 fic from Scorpius' POV.

"You set me up. Not that I care."  
  
I remain quite still on the bare cot in my cell as the low timbre of Crichton's voice washes over me, radiating anger and hate. It's about time.  
  
"I don't care... about much. War. Death. Wormholes."  
  
He continues his mawkish monologue as he prowls around the chamber like a trapped animal. Which, of course, is precisely what he is.  
  
"I don't care about the things you care about. Peacekeepers rule the Scarrans. Scarrans rule the Peacekeepers. Let them rule together. Put your ass in a cage. I care... about one thing. One."  
  
Everyone has a lever. Everyone has a price. Some are more pedestrian than others, more predictable. I'm not surprised, given what I've experienced on this ship, the Crichton's is more pathetic that most. Still, it is most convenient that through simple foresight, preparation and... a lot of patience, I have finally brought Crichton to the point where he feels that same sense of desperation about his 'one thing' as I do about mine.  
  
"God have mercy on my soul."  
  
He sinks to his knees beside me and I'm suddenly acutely aware of his scent; the unwashed stench of fear and desperation. Not at all Sebacean. It is altogether more raw, primal and wholly masculine. I must confess I find it quite intoxicating; almost overwhelming. I feel the surge of an animal urge to lash out and grab him by the throat. To assert my dominance and ensure he knows just how completely he's is beaten, but, as always, I keep control. The detestable Scarran beast within has no place here.  
  
"I think - I'm gonna to need your help - Mr Scarran half-breed... to get Aeryn back. Help me get her and I will give you wormholes. I have an idea of how to find the Scarran base. Aeryn. For wormholes. That's the deal."  
  
He rises to leave and with it the beast retreats.  
  
For now.  


***

  
"So I figure, if Bizarro Stark knows the name of the base, he might know its location. That's it. Best I got. You got any better ideas... I listen."  
  
His level gaze and physical signature express nothing but complete, naked honesty. Crichton has proven himself capable of breathtaking deception in the past, but I judge this to no longer be of any concern.  
  
His plan, if you can call it that, is... intriguing. I have seen this man dive into the most extraordinary folly countless times and emerge unscathed on the other side. Despite the obvious and logical assessment that this plan is sheer madness, destined to fail, I find I do believe that Crichton could succeed.  
  
And this 'Bizarro' universe is certainly something I'm keen to experience.  
  
"If I help with this insanity and we do get Aeryn back, you will tell me all you know about wormholes." For a microt he refuses to meet my gaze, so I lean in close to press my point, "every equation. Every formula."  
  
"Everything," he says.  
  
Ahh, there it is again, the animal attempting to claw its way out and claim my victory over him. This time I decide to allow it some quarter. After all why not? I am on the brink of obtaining everything I have desired for so many cycles.  
  
He fights to pull away when I grasp his thick wrist. Quite futile. Crichton appears Sebacean strong, but his superficial muscle mass is no match for the strength my Scarran physiology affords me. The flash of irritation in his eyes as he realises this fact is most satisfying.  
  
My claw slices his delicate skin and I relish the hiss from his lips just as much as the feel of his flesh parting so easily at my touch. Red blood beads along the lip of the wound and his a warm scent fills my nostrils as I draw him to my mouth. His skin is soft against my tongue and the blood carries the sweet metallic tang of his capitulation.  
  
He doesn't pull away, but the twist of his lips betrays his distaste and make the moment all the more sensuous.  
  
There are, I understand, some primitive species who believe that you can gain a persons knowledge by eating his flesh. I find the notion deeply appealing even though I know it to be false. Alas, I have tasted Crichton before and the wormhole knowledge given by the Ancients, as much as I might wish otherwise, cannot be obtained through consumption.  
  
I must wait.  
  
But not without insurance.  
  
I make the next cut, splitting at once both flesh and leather, and offer myself to him. Crichton lips pulls back revealing his teeth in an ineffectual snarl. His distaste is amusing, but irrelevant.  
  
"Your turn."  
  
"Nosferatu," he mumbles, "First instinct is always right."  
  
"Scarran blood vow." I explain; that much, at least, is true.  
  
"You hate everything Scarran."  
  
Also true.  
  
"I will help... if you taste."  
  
It takes a moment to decide, but soon he parts his lips for me. I watch closely as the pale fluid falls from the tip of my finger to splash gently on his tongue. The soft droplet gleams for a moment against deep red before he closes his mouth around it and swallows.  
  
One drop.  
  
Plenty.  


***

  
_You find yourself wandering in a strange neighbourhood, a TV-typical all American suburb, until you come upon a pretty house in a quiet street. You go inside, pass through the living room and head upstairs to a bedroom belonging to a TV-typical all American kid. The bed is neatly made with blue and grey checked blankets under a wall festooned with football flags and poster of Clint Eastwood, "The Good, The Bad and the Ugly."_  
  
_You focus your attention on the bed and if it were something you were capable of you would smile._  
  
_Under the bed, clad in a black leather coolant suit and an oversized football jersey, Harvey lies on his front with his head propped on his bony elbows. He has a little torch strapped to his forehead, a big bag of chips at one side and a stack of well thumbed Playboys at the other. He smirks and licks his lips as he leafs through the pages of the magazine._  
  
_He pauses for a moment, as if suddenly aware of a presence, but instead of looking up he turns the magazine and folds out the center page; there's a dirty little hiss from his lips and his shoulders shake as he takes in the image. If it were something your were capable of you would roll your eyes. Only once the snigger subsides does he raise his head. He looks at you; eyes shinning._  
  
_"I assume," he says, "time-out is finished."_  
  
_Soon._  
  
_Harvey nods and returns to his magazine._  
  
_You watch for a while and then leave. Your task complete._


End file.
